


A fly in the ointment

by MushiAkki



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Multi, alternative season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MushiAkki/pseuds/MushiAkki
Summary: Could the death of one person destroy everything?Unfortunately, John Watson knew the answer to that question. Yes, it can. He had found out about it twice. But still couldn't admit to himself why.(The form of the story allows you to choose the continuation. You can direct the fate of the characters yourself.)
Comments: 1





	A fly in the ointment

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I'm starting a storyline like this so I don't know what will come of it. However, I hope we can make a nice fanfic. ;) English is not my native language, so please let me know if there are any mistakes (Sorry for that. It's been long time since I wrote something in a foreign language).  
> I am open to any suggestions and advice.

Every day seemed the same. After his leave, he started working at the clinic, wondering why he hadn't been fired for so much absence. However, he preferred not to ask. He turned to work mechanically, but he couldn't help stop the feeling that Mary would soon enter his office with a smile on her face and morning coffee. The only thing that matched this vision was a caffeinated drink in a paper cup on the desk that he had bought on the way. He was taking a break so he took a sip and glanced at the display on his cell phone. He opened the photo file and began going through them, one by one. A photo taken by Mary just before the wedding, when he looking at himself in the mirror to see how the tailcoat lay. Another from their honeymoon, where Mary was eating an octopus which he couldn't swallow. The next one was taken on the beach, in the park and the last one - at home. They sat together on the couch watching some goofy talk show. Mary decided they would take a picture of themselves for no reason. As if she knew that this would be their last photo, that it would all be over in six days. John stared at the screen, feeling that he must blink several times. At the same time, the phone vibrated and signaled the new message.

**Moran caught. SH**

Watson stared at the message for a moment, then hung his finger over the reply button, but moved it to delete and lowered it. It was the first SMS from Sherlock since the funeral. The detective didn't write, call, or run into him by accident on the street, as John had expected. Maybe he even felt disappointed by it. He shook his head to ward off such thoughts. "No no. It's OK. Time to start a new life ... ", he thought and looked at the clock on the wall." ... without expression and purpose, "he finished gloomily.

***

Holmes leaned against the wall and slowly slumped t the ground, pressing his bleeding hand against his body. He was breathing heavily as if he had run a marathon, but he tried to equalize the accelerated pulse with deep breaths. The adrenaline still circulated through his body. In front of him on the concrete floor lay an unconscious man. Just to be sure, his hands were handcuffed and his legs were tied with a trouser belt. But he didn't look like he was about to wake up and run away. Sherlock leaned his head against the cold wall. The hand was tearing horribly, and the temples throbbed with dull pain. He wrapped the scarf around the wound and pulled it tight to reduce the loss of blood that ran down his fingers to the floor, making a small stain that stood out against the grey background of the concrete. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and tapped out the address of the hall it was in, then dialed Mycroft's number and sent a message. He typed a second text and ran a bloody finger across the screen, searching for the contact he was interested in. The letters started to blur a little, but he found the right number. The message "Send to: John Watson" appeared on the screen. The phone confirmed that the message was sent. Sherlock lowered hand with his cell phone, which scratched when it touched the rough floor. He narrowed grey blue eyes, staring at the hazy image of a tied blond man with a scar on his eye. Detective closed his eyes, no longer able to fight the fatigue that engulfed him. The sounds gradually were fading away, as if they drifting away from him when he plunged into the darkness. The last thing which through his mind was:

"John is safe now."

***

The clock struck five o'clock. Watson had left work an hour ago and was already sitting in his apartment, staring disinterestedly at the TV when the doorbell rang. He got up from the couch and shuffled into the hall. Molly was standing in the doorway, panting. She looked like she was running halfway across London to him.

“Hi. Something’s happened?” He asked uncertainly.

"I called but you didn't answer," she said, making small pauses between words.

"I had to silence my phone," he said, stepping aside. - Will you come in?

"No," she said firmly. “Not now. We have to go to the hospital. Sherlock is there.”

John frowned.

"I'm sorry Molly, but I don't care what Holmes is doing or where he is. I've already told you that, and so have Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.”

“John, but he's hurt. He was on some secret case or something. I don’t know exactly. They found him unconscious in some old hall on the outskirts of London. He's lost a lot of blood. That's what Lestrade told me. ” She tapped her breath, then leaned against the doorframe. Watson looked at her blankly. He was silent for a moment, thinking intensely about something.

"John," she said pleadingly after a moment's silence.

“I'm sorry, Molly. Drive alone,” he said finally. Before the girl could react, he closed the door. She stood for a moment more, staring incredulously at the dark brown boards.

Watson turned the lock on the door and leaned back against it.

_"Damn Sherlock, he always has to_ _get into trouble_ s _... No, I'm not going to him this time. It's over. Sherlock Holmes died with Mary,”_ he told himself, then added aloud:

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't exist for me anymore ... Doesn't exist ... Doesn't exist ..." he repeated under his breath, each time more quietly. Hoped the mantra helps, but he didn't feel better. He went back to the living room and poured himself a glass of scotch, which was on the coffee table and began to be a regular part of John's day.

* * *

He was drifting. Like a walnut shell in the middle of an endless ocean. His mind slammed into a safe keep, shielding himself from physical pain. Unfortunately, he couldn't quite cut himself off from the loneliness that consumed him. A feeling that for many years was so close to him that it almost burned a void in his soul. He was alone again within the walls of his "mind palace". Surrounded by the surging black water. A treacherous hope could not stop the tide of cold facts. He had disappointed him. The most important person who gave him the chance to be himself, to be accepted. Haughtiness prevailed over reason. He deserved his fate. There was no point to fight. He felt the cold seep through the layers of his clothes, and his coat soaked more and more, pulling him down. He had no strength to move his arms or legs, slowly losing power in all body. The light from the lamps began to dim, like a receding lighthouse, until it finally faded out for good, leaving him in a darkness diffused only by the silvery glow of the water. He had the feeling that he didn't feel cold, he didn't feel anything anymore as the water reached the line of his cheekbones. Eyes wide open, staring at the reflecting black depth in the mirrored ceiling and his own frail body floating on water passively. The end has come. He should have accepted it sooner. If that had happened, maybe there would have never been so many worries. John would be happy ... But he was too selfish to give up. He couldn't let go. This time, however, he was not going to make the same mistake. A wave splashed next to him, crashing against the open door of one of the rooms. Icy drops ran down his cheeks, bringing back the cold feeling of his skin for a moment. Another impulse broke through the darkness. The water muffled sound was familiar, rhythmic. He couldn't remember what it was. His usually brilliant observations were replaced by an icy void. However, he tried to focus on the indistinct noise. He was sure he had heard it more than once.

_John. It has to do with John. No ... Indirectly. John ..._

He sank deeper and deeper as a weak voice echoed in the background.

_"Can you hear me?"_

_Middle-aged man._ \- It was getting harder and harder for him to digest information.

_"Squeeze my hand."_

Sherlock didn't understand how he could do it if he felt nothing. He focused again on the rhythmic signal that drowned out the man's voice.

_John. John is a doctor. That sound always close to the place. What was it? John. Doctor. Near the hospital ... Ambulance._

He felt terribly exhausted, as if he had solved an unimaginably difficult case, but it was a trivial task. He knew it only had to mean one thing. His brain was slowly shutting down. The body has already given up.

_"Hang on."_ He heard a voice in the distance again.

What? He asked, not recognizing his own voice. It’s sounds like a whisper from a tight throat.

_"The pressure goes down."_

He felt as if he were surrounded by new voices as distant as the previous one.

Water rushed up his nose and eyes.

_"Saturation eighty."_

The screeching in the ears drilled painfully into the back of the skull.

_"Defibrillation."_

Alone in the dark.

He was dying.

* * *

John jumped up from the couch. The glass with the residues of whiskey fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces. He took a deep breath, staring at the glass shining in the bluish light of the TV. His heart pounded in his chest. He sat up and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead.

"Sherlock," he whispered under his breath, hiding his face in his trembling hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Choose the continuation of the story:
> 
> a) Sherlock is really going to die  
> b) Sherlock will survive but he will fall into a coma  
> c) Sherlock will be rescued by the medics, but brain damage will occur  
> d) Sherlock will defeat death once again, but mentally he will need support
> 
> I know how optimistic these options are.


End file.
